Slant Tales

“That goddamned dog shit on our lawn again,” my father announced as he came through the door, dropping his briefcase beside the kitchen counter.
“Is that any way to greet your family?” my mother asked from behind the stove.
“Daddy!” my sister squealed and waddled up to him, stark naked, and clutched his leg.
“Does this kid ever put on clothes?” Dad asked.
“She refuses,” Mom replied, waving her hand over the pot roast she had just removed from the oven. “It’s just a phase.”
“Let’s hope so,” Dad said and reached down to ruffle Laura’s hair.
“How was your day, honey?” Mom asked.
“It was fine until I was coming up the driveway and saw that pile of shit.”
“Don’t say shit. Say poop,” Mom said.
“Poop!” Laura cried, laughing as Dad tried to free himself from her grasp.
For the last several months, the topic of shit, or poop, was always a part of the dinner conversation. Our next door neighbors, the Wagners, had been letting their Great Dane, Biscuit, use the bathroom at the edge of our yard, every day, and would not pick up after him. The only reason that there weren’t several hundred piles of shit lining our driveway was that my father went out every night to remove them, only to find a fresh one the next day.
“I’m losing my mind,” he said. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“Well, why don’t you say something,” Mom offered, same as she did every night. “The Wagners are nice people. I’m sure if they knew they were driving you crazy, they would do something about it.”
“It’s too late for that,” Dad said. “This has gone on for far too long.”
“And whose fault is that,” Mom muttered under her breath.
The fact is, my father could have said something and the Wagners would have most certainly curbed their dog. They were nice people, and they were older—probably in their 70s—so it was likely that they didn’t understand that their dog’s constant use of our front yard was the kind of inexcusable act my father made it out to be. They weren’t doing it out of spite or malice, though my father had his theories.
“Did we give them a Christmas gift last year?” he asked before loosening his tie and taking a seat with Laura and I at the dinner table.
“Popcorn balls, remember? You were the one who walked them over.”
Dad scanned his memory before nodding definitively. “Right. Well what about that dinner party we had last month. Did anyone park in front of their driveway? Should we have invited them over?”
“Give it a rest, Army,” Mom said, bringing the pot roast to the table and taking her seat.

That Saturday morning, I woke to find my father drinking coffee and reading the newspaper in our front living room—the formal living room—which we never used unless our out-of-town grandparents were visiting. The furniture there was stiff and uncomfortable, and breakable things lined the walls. My sister and I were instructed to stay out of that room unless we were under strict adult supervision.
My father spotted me coming down the stairs. “Hey, kiddo. Come in here and sit with me.”
I joined him on the sofa that faced the front window, clasping my hands together in my lap. I didn’t like that room. I felt certain that if I made one wrong move I would go careening into the wall, sending china and crystal flying and crashing into shards all around me.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked. “Let’s go into the TV room. The couches are more comfortable in there.”
“No no no,” Dad said, lowering his paper and peering out the window. “You have to help me keep watch. I’ve been waiting for about an hour now, but I’m reading a very interesting article, so I need you to take over for a bit. Keep your eyes peeled.”
“For what?” I looked out across our front yard and could see all the way down to our mailbox at the corner of the driveway.
“For that damn dog, “ Dad said. “I want to catch him in the act.”
In my groggy state I had forgotten that my father was a man consumed by an obsession. And now he had drawn me into his madness.
“Just keep watching,” he said. “I’ll be done in a minute, then you can go watch your cartoons.”
The loyal daughter that I was, I sat on the edge of my seat and stared out the window at the empty lawn. A few cars passed lazily on the street, but nothing more. I thought of calling out to my mother, but the last thing I wanted was to redirect my father’s wrath onto myself. As long as he was focused on the neighbors, their dog, and the piles of shit on our lawn, I was just a good little daughter helping Daddy with his work.
Several more minutes passed, and just as I was about to tell my father I wanted to give up the watch, there came Mr. Wagner, rounding the corner with Biscuit, his massive, gray dog.
“Look!” I shrieked, and Dad threw down his paper and stared out the window.
“Well what do you know,” he said, almost surprised that our vigilance had paid off.
Mr. Wagner walked Biscuit right onto our lawn just beyond the mailbox, and looked around for witnesses before nodding at his dog. The great beast buckled his legs and hunched up his back, and right there before our eyes, released a turd the size of my sister’s head.
“I don’t believe it!” Dad cried. “Right there, in broad daylight!” His eyes were wild, his face nearly touching the windowpane.
“And did you see Mr. Wagner?” I said. “It was like he actually told Biscuit to do it right there in our yard!”
“That man’s got some nerve.” Dad shook his head in disgust.
It felt good, egging my father on, fueling his rage. “Yeah, some nerve,” I replied.
When Biscuit was done with his business, Mr. Wagner patted him on the head and they continued on their way down the street.
“He has no consideration,” Dad said, and I assumed he wasn’t talking about the dog. “No consideration at all. You girls play in that yard, for Christ’s sake! I know you’re smart, but God knows what Laura would do if she found one of those turds.”
He was right. I was a terribly bright girl, precocious you might say, but Laura was capable of unspeakable things. “She would probably try to play with it,” I suggested, and watched the color drain from my father’s face.
He stood from his seat and took one last gulp of his coffee. “You’re right,” he said solemnly. “Something has to be done.”
He turned and walked out of the room, and I followed him into the kitchen where my mother was cooking eggs.
“And where are you going?” she asked Dad as he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
“I’ll be back. You stay here,” he pointed at me.
“I’ll keep watch just in case he comes back,” I said. I knew it was unlikely, but I felt useful standing guard. After all, I had been the one to spot the criminal act in the first place. My father was in need of my keen vision.
“Good idea,” he said, and left the house.
“You stay put,” my mother said after he was gone. “Your breakfast is almost ready, and I don’t want you spoiling your appetite by staring at some pile of poop.”

My father had been gone for over an hour when I was stirred from my cartoon-induced stupor by the sound of a hammer banging in the front yard.
My mother heard it too. “What’s all that racket?” she said.
Along with Laura, naked as a jaybird, we walked out the front door to find my father at the edge of the yard hammering a signpost into the lawn.
“What on earth are you doing?” Mom yelled as we approached him.
“Quiet!” he said. “And watch where you step. I haven’t cleaned up the last pile yet.”
We joined him at the foot of the yard and looked down at the large, obtrusive sign. KEEP OFF THE GRASS, it said.
“What’s it say, Daddy?” Laura asked, squinting at the letters.
“Well, sweetie,” Dad began in a gentle voice, “it says to please keep your dogs from pooping in our yard so that our children might play in peace.”
“Poop!” Laura screamed and went waddling off toward the house.
Mom pursed her lips and looked sideways at Dad.
“You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you’d have just gone over and talked to them,” she said. “Now we have this tacky sign in our yard.” She walked off after Laura.
I looked up at my father and saw the sweat trickling down his cheek, a broad, satisfied smile spreading across his face. He put his arm around my shoulders and we admired his handiwork.
“Good work, Dad,” I said.
“Yep,” he said. “That outta do it.”

The next morning, I sat watching television with my father and sister in the den when my mother returned home from the grocery store.
“Well, it looks like your little sign didn’t work,” she said.
“What are you talking about?” Dad asked, looking up from the television.
“I was coming up the driveway, and there was Bill Wagner and Biscuit, leaving us another little present in the same spot as usual, right in front of your sign.” Her tone was flip and casual. She shared none of my father’s anger, and this seemed to upset him more.
“What?!” he cried. “Where the hell does that man get off? He’s lucky I don’t go over there and—“
“And what?” Mom cut him off, “Post a sign in his yard?”
“What did you do?” I asked her.
“Well, I rolled down my window and told him we would appreciate it if he kept Biscuit off the lawn. I reminded him that we have two small girls, and we can’t always be worried that one of them is going to stumble onto a pile of poop.”
“Poop!” Laura screamed, digging a finger into her exposed belly button.
“And…?” my father pressed.
“And he apologized and said he would have Biscuit do his business elsewhere from now on. He was perfectly lovely about it and told me to pass on his apology to you, as well.”
“That’s it?” Dad asked.
“That’s it,” Mom said, placing the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. “Now we can get on with our lives.”
My father would never say anything, but I knew he was slightly humiliated by my mother’s actions. For all the time he had spent fuming, she had solved the problem with a little Southern charm and direct honesty. And though my mother would never say anything either, I knew she was the smallest bit pleased with herself for taking matters into her own hands and dealing with a problem that my father’s passive aggression would only enhance.
A few days later, safe in our front yard again, Dad and I were tossing around a softball when Mr. Wagner walked up our driveway carrying a metal tin.
“Hello Army, Sarah,” he said, smiling warmly.
“Bill!” Dad said, too loud. “How the hell are you?” They shook each other’s hands.
“Just fine, I guess,” he said and handed my father the tin. “I had my wife make y’all some cookies.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” Dad said, his voice as gentle as silk.
“I just wanted to apologize,” Mr. Wagner said, looking my father in the eye. “For well, you know…” He trailed off, chuckling, and my father laughed along with him.
“Don’t mention it,” Dad said. “Really, no harm done.”
Don’t mention it? No harm done? Where was the fury that had been building in my father for months? I would have been less surprised to see him punch Mr. Wagner in the face.
“It was just thoughtless of me,” Mr. Wagner continued and looked in my direction. “Especially with your girls, and all.”
“Honestly, don’t worry about it,” Dad said, the rage I had grown used to seeing in his face replaced by magnanimity.
“Wish you hadn’t gone to any trouble with that sign, though. You should have just come over said something.”
Dad paused for a moment then stuttered, “Well, you know…I didn’t…We weren’t sure it was your dog. I mean, we love Biscuit, honestly, and what with so many dogs in the neighborhood and everything, it really could have been anyone.” He laughed nervously.
“Right,” Mr. Wagner said and smiled. “Well, I hope you enjoy the cookies. And Sarah, you’re welcome to come over and play basketball anytime. The kids are all grown and gone, and that old hoop isn’t getting any use.”
“Thanks,” I said, still skeptical of this man my father had held a grudge against for so long.
“Take care,” he said and shook my father’s hand again.
“You too,” Dad said. “Thanks for the cookies. And tell Betsy I said hello.”
Dad and I watched him make his way back down the driveway before we resumed our game. I expected my father to say something mean or sarcastic once Mr. Wagner was out of earshot, but he said nothing except, “Softball season’s coming up soon. I think it’s about time we got you a new glove.”